


Tumblr Ficlets

by magikspell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crying, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Love, M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-02-09 04:14:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1968618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magikspell/pseuds/magikspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>quick lil fics written in ~30 minutes</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. with perfect clarity

"Have you ever kissed anyone?" John asks, flushing. He rolls onto his belly and props his head up on his hands, elbows pressing against the earth.

Sherlock bites his lip, contemplating his answer. His cheeks are pink from sun exposure, and freckles have begun to appear on his forehead, tiny brown pinpricks of freckles that dust his rosy skin. _It doesn't make much sense to lie, does it?_

His eyes find John's, and he notes the smile-crinkles caused by smile-squinting, and he's rather dashing, isn't he, just very, very--

"No," Sherlock answers after freeing his lip from his teeth.

John leans closer, stretching his upper body, scooting with his elbows, hovering over Sherlock who's holding his breath--blinking too much, eyelashes fluttering.

"Not at all?" It's a whisper.

Sherlock shakes his head once, letting out a slow stream of breath from his parted lips. He smells John's skin, smells sweet coconut suncream, smells shower fresh deodorant and rugby-sweat.

John touches his lips to Sherlock's, just a soft brush of lips, a very first kiss, dry mouths and pressing noses and John's fringe touching the freckles on Sherlock's forehead.

"Me neither," John says when he pulls back. His cheeks are red and eyes are gleaming, and Sherlock looks at him like he's the only boy alive, like he's never seen such a thing, such a beautiful, beautiful thing.

He tastes him on his lips, he thinks, though he knows it's unlikely. It was but a press, skin against skin. Sherlock sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and runs his tongue over the flesh, savouring, saving. If only a memory could capture with perfect clarity a moment one never wishes to lose. Can it?

Sherlock smiles because John's smiling. John's touching Sherlock's bare forearms, stroking thumbs against still-pale flesh, and he looks like he likes him, doesn't he? _Does he like him? How can it be?_

"You're beautiful, you know," John says, as if it's obvious--as if Sherlock knows this as fact.

And it's as if he read Sherlock's mind--because he doesn't only mean, "You're beautiful," does he? He means, "I like you"; he means, "I just kissed you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock's stomach clenches. He bites back a smile, his breath coming out all gaspy and loud. 

"I've never had a second kiss," he murmurs, just a creak of voice, and it pains him to say it, to be so horribly cheesy, so boring, so predictable, but he feels it, this rush in the pit of him, a desire for John Watson's lips and John Watson's smile and John Watson's wonderful heart--every bit of John Watson he can and can't see, his inside and out.

"I've never had a second kiss," he says again, more confidently, smiling, damn him.

John laughs, so happy. He brushes the bridge of Sherlock's nose with his thumb. "Me neither." 

Closer, closer.

"Give us a sec, though."


	2. like this

No one’s ever touched him like this. Not really. Not with gentle fingers and soft lips and with murmurs of, “Look at you, you gorgeous thing; I love you, God, I love you.” He bites his lip through it—bites his lip sore as John moves inside him, grasps at him, as someone loves him for the first time, pleasures him, _wants_ to please him, make him feel good, kiss him. 

He was odd. Difficult. He experimented and investigated and frowned and made no friends and certainly no lovers and--

No one’s ever touched him like this. Not really. Not like John, not with warm, damp breaths, not with tongue, soft licks to his mouth, sucks to his jaw, chin, neck, shoulders. “You’re beautiful,” John says, rubbing at his tensing belly, grasping hold of him, touching him _like this_. “I love you. I love you.”

He strokes him, and he’s gentle, and Sherlock’s close, too close, close because no one’s ever touched him like this, no one’s wanted to, how does he want to why does he want to how can it be that he’s lucky and--

What is luck?

What is John Watson?

John kisses him, soft, slow, warm, wet kisses, lip-tugs, coordinated to Sherlock’s uncoordinated, confident to Sherlock’s shy, and touches him like this. 

"John," Sherlock says. "John." And he breaks, breaks on the second tenuous "John," "John." He gasps, sobs, "John.”

The tears are hot and they’re embarrassing, and Sherlock’s face is red and warm and why does this have to happen? Why does he have to cry? Crying. How dull. How horribly, horribly—

John kisses his tears, smears his lips across his cheeks, runs fingers through his hair and moves and moves and—

He breaks again. Always breaking. “John.” But he’s tense and there’s pulsing, warm-wet-sticky-milky-heat spreading, spreading; his belly trembles.

"Look at you. Look at you." John moans. John breaks. He kisses his eyes, his nose, his lips individually, chin-jaw-nose-shoulders. “Look at you. Look at you.”

Sherlock breathes, shaky. Warmth spreading, spreading. His belly trembles.

"Sorry," he says, swiping at his face with his forearm. "Sorry. I’m—"

He’s—

"Don’t," John murmurs, touching his lips to his nose. "Don’t. You lovely man."

John strokes him, and he’s gentle, and _no one’s ever touched him like this._

"You lovely, lovely man."


End file.
